


Copies and Connections

by GuardianLioness



Series: Young Justice Platonic Soulbond AU [6]
Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Explaining S2 Changes, Gen, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulbond AU, Platonic Soulmates, slight fix-it fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 06:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16012607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuardianLioness/pseuds/GuardianLioness
Summary: Bruce says the clone has soulbonds. It's a weapon, designed to bring him down, and yet, somehow, it hassoulbonds. The one thing that Clark himself can't have.Gen/platonic soul mark AU in which individuals have marks foreveryonevitally important in their lives.





	Copies and Connections

**Author's Note:**

> This series runs largely on character requests (with the occasional fix-it, like this one ^^''), so feel free to leave one in the comments!
> 
> I'm currently knee-deep in a Flash-family-centric one-shot for this universe, requested by a reader, but it's by far the longest fic in the series so far, and it needs some more polish before it's published. ;)

“He has marks.”

Bruce lets out an imperceptible huff, jaw twitching in frustration. It’s only abnormally fast vision that enables Clark to notice the tells. The man is expressing displeasure, well aware of the fact that  every nuance of the mood will be understood.

“He does.” A fact you would have known if you’d bothered to speak to him.

“Who?”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at the audacity of the question, but he clasps his hands together on the table in front of him. “My son, for one.”

_Robin_? Bonded to the half-Luthor clone?

“So you can see, Clark, why I would have some personal investment in the matter.”

Yes. He _can_ see. It’s as plain as the flash of blue on Bruce’s wrist, a glowing sigil that speaks of his bond with his adopted son.

Clark doesn’t usually see Bruce’s rainbow of soul bonds, hidden as they are behind the cowl and kevlar. It’s only when they meet in civilian garb that some of the patterns peek out from the cuff of a sleeve or a mussed shirt collar.

It’s fascinating to him, how a man as closed off as Bruce can have so many connections, so many people that rely on him. As hard as it is to admit, Clark is jealous. His own pale skin carries the alien curse of blankness. Only humans are given the gift of colors.

But his clone has them. The clone, a tool created by his greatest enemy, has been been given a gift he will never have.

“He wants to know you, Clark. You’re the only person on this planet who could start to understand his abilities, and after the Team’s actions on New Year’s Eve, he’s owed some consideration.”

When he mentions New Year’s Eve, Clark is plunged back into the sensation of unrestrained strength and an impenetrable haze, both cut short by the unyielding agony of Kryptonite. The clone weapon took the full force of a Kryptonite shard to bring him down. Even with half-human genes, the strain had to have been incredible.

It was in the aftermath that Clark noticed the clone’s marks. Red and gold glinting through a tear in his pants, a set of regularly spaced white lines on his neck, a flash of blue on his arm.

If one was Robin’s mark, the rest probably belonged to the Team as well. Could a weapon really anchor itself in such a tight-knit group? If they had accepted him, was a weapon really all the clone could be?

“I’ll think about it, Bruce.”

The other man let out a huff — one of acknowledgement this time — and stood to make his way out of the diner door.

Clark sighed, absently prodding at the remnants of his slice of pie.

 

—

 

With heavy shoulders, Clark sinks to the ground behind the Kents’ Smallville home. The earthy air and soft breeze alone are enough to know that he’s home. Being a reporter, being a member of the Justice league, they make life worth living, but there will always be a part of him that belongs here bringing in the harvest, tending to the animals, and sitting on the farmhouse porch.

Kryptonians may not have soul bonds, but this place is etched into his very heart.

He walks at a normal, human pace to the front door. Time is more important when he’s got something to think through. Ma isn’t going to like what he has to say.

Clark should have come home a long time ago, but he’s scared of what he is going to hear. Reaching out, he knocks hesitantly at the door. It swings open, and even faster than _he_ can react, arms pull him into a hug.

A smile tugs at his face when he sees his Ma’s eyes teary with joy. “You should’ve told us you were coming to home!”

“Sorry I surprised you,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Jonathan! Clark’s home!”

Home. Even though he has the fortress in the arctic, quarters in the Watchtower, and the apartment in Metropolis, the farm is still home.

They usher him inside, welcoming him with exclamations, chatter, and mile-wide grins. By the time Clark is settled on the couch, he’s been overwhelmed by the familiar timbre of their voices, the warm, sweet scent of the house’s wooden beams, and the near-imperceptible hum of electricity in the old fluorescent lights. The tension in his shoulders evaporates, leaving him with a sensation of peace that he can’t even find in the empty sky.

He listens patiently as they tell him about the Lang farm’s two cows calving at the same time, how a fox has been getting into their hen coop, and that the new neighbors to the south have a turkey named Jill. It’s easy talk, farm talk. It rings so naturally in his ears, more than mission talk or diplomatic discussions.

Clark sinks into it, and his parents do all the work of keeping up the conversation. It’s so, so easy. But when their words run out, and they’re looking at him expectantly, he sits up straighter on the couch and clears his throat.

“Ma, Pa, I…Something happened, and I handled it badly. Now, I don’t know what to do, and I’m worried you’ll be disappointed in me.”

The solemnity on their faces is somehow comforting. They care about what it is he’s about to say.

“We love you,” Ma says, resting her hand on his arm. “No mistake will change that.”

“Your ma is right, son.” Pa speaks with his soft voice, the one he used when Clark’s senses were first developing inhuman strength and everything was overwhelming at once.

It’s true, and he knows it, so Clark steels himself.

“I’m not the only Kryptonian on Earth anymore.”

Their expressions shift to mirrored shock. “Clark,” his ma starts to speak, reproach in her tone.

“No, Ma! It wasn’t anything like that! Luthor — “ Clark’s voice comes dangerously close to breaking. “Luthor stole some of my DNA. He recombined it with his own and cloned it.”

To his parents’ credit, they let him explain before asking the countless questions they have to be dying to ask.

“The clone was telekinetically programmed with most of the knowledge that it’d need to function. It has my strength, my speed — Luthor built something to _replace_ me.”

“And the League discovered it,” Ma breathes.

“No. We didn’t. That’s the worst part.” A hysterical laugh escapes him, and he buries his face in his hands. “ _Dick_ discovered it. Dick and his group of friends.”

“Bruce’s son?” Pa’s brow furrows.

“He and his friends decided to ignore orders. They staged a raid on a facility without backup and nearly died trying to escape. The— the clone escaped with them. Helped them.”

“Clark, honey.” He curses his super hearing, because he can hear the way her breath falters. “What do you mean?”

“Bruce says the clone has the body and mental acuity of a sixteen-year-old. They…they freed it and convinced it to help them fight their way out. And it’s been living at the old Mount Justice base with several of the other sidekicks. Red Tornado and Dinah have been supervising and training them.”

“I’m a simple man. You know this, so humor your old man, because I don’t think I understand.” Pa straightens up, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You’re telling us that there’s a boy out there with strength like yours, a boy who is _related_ to you, genetically, and this is the first we’re hearing about it?”

“I did say you’d be disappointed in me.” 

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because I didn’t want him to exist. He’s a weapon, one that Luthor made to _get_ to me. He’s ingratiated himself with Robin and the rest of the League’s students, and he could legally be my _kid_ , but he could just as easily kill them. Kill _me_.”

There’s a moment of silence as they process it. Ma pulls him closer.

“What made you tell us now, son?”

“Because,” Clark whispers. “He’s half human. He’s got soul bonds.”

Pa draws in a shaky breath and rolls his sleeve back, like he always does when bonds come up, to display the geometric design on his forearm. “Now, son,” he starts to say what he has said dozens of times before. “Just because you don’t _show_ your connections doesn’t mean you don’t have them.” Ma follows suit, pulling at the cuff of her own sleeve to display the same marking on her wrist.

His parents have told him time and time again about how the soft red and blue light manifested the day they decided that Clark was theirs. That they would keep a baby with no marks, no hope for a bond. That they would love him so much, it wouldn’t matter.

“The clone…he can’t be a weapon if he’s got marks. If he’s meant to love other people. And I…He was created without my consent. He was meant to hurt me, but I…I left him alone. He’s just as much a stranger to the world as I am, and I left him to deal with it _alone_.”

They let him curl in on himself for a moment, then Pa lets out a hum. “Are you going to make it right?”

“I want to. I want to fix this. Will you help me?”

“We will _always_ help you, son.”

They stay there for a moment, just breathing in the comfort of family and home, and then his ma stands up.

“So, where do we start?”

 

—

 

“Red Tornado said you wanted to talk to me.”

It’s like looking in a time displaced mirror, and as determined as he is, there’s something _wrong_ about seeing at your teenage self looking back at you. The urge to wince is strong, so he seeks out the blue that cuts across the kid’s arm. It’s the first difference, the most obvious difference, and it grounds Clark in his conviction that the clo — _Conner_ is more than a destructive artifact.

“I do.” His voice is _hesitant_ , and he grits his teeth. He came here to make amends, not make it worse. “Walk with me?” The gaping cavern of the central room in Mount Justice is not the place for a conversation of this weight, and, though he’s loathe to admit it, he’d rather hide some of his own embarrassment.

“Alright.” Conner’s voice is clipped and terse. He folds his arms across his chest. They walk silently through the hallway and exit on the side of the mountain closest to the beach. When the door locks up behind them, Clark eases into the air, intending to find a place to perch on the mountain crags.

Conner doesn’t follow. Looking back, Clark sees the boy’s jaw clench. “I can’t fly.” The words pull from his mouth and his brow furrows in disgust, like their taste is unbearable to him.

Clark blinks. Can’t fly? Because he’s half human?

He gathers his courage and extends a hand. “We’re not going far.” Conner reaches forward, fingers locking around Clark’s wrist in the carry grip that the League uses for their non-flying members. Bruce or Dinah must have included it in his training plan. The kid is strong, maybe nearly as strong as Diana.

The closest rock shelf is maybe 30 feet off the ground. In seconds, they’re settled on the precipice, relinquishing the uncomfortable contact.

“So what do you want?”

“To thank you,” Clark says, folding his hands, “and to apologize.”

Conner turns to look at him so quickly, Clark’s afraid he’s injured his neck. The boy’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but he says nothing.

“I saw the footage from the Watchtower. You and Robin brought me down. You withstood Kryptonite.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Conner looks away to stare at the ground below them. “Let the Light keep control?”

“You could have left it to the others. You didn’t.” It’s like the sun has flickered to life, illuminating a sense of understanding.

Conner wanted to help. He did so of his own free will. He did it because he has a sense of personal responsibility.

How could Clark have ever considered him a weapon?

“As for the apology…I pushed you away. And I shouldn’t have.”

The kid shakes his head with a derisive snort. “What, you think I need your attention?”

“No. You’ll be fine without me. But it wasn’t fair to leave you without an offer.” Clark sighs, and runs a nervous hand through his hair. “You’re the only other Kryptonian left. I’m the only one who might know how that feels.”

“I’m not a Kryptonian. I’m half human.”

“The half still counts.” Clark frowns. “And being half human gives you some advantages.”

“Like what?” Conner huffs.

“Like that.” Clark gestures to the blue mark on Conner’s arm "What do you mean?"

"Soul bonds are human." Clark smiles wryly.

"You don't...have them?"

"No." He tugs back the blue sleeve of his uniform to show unmarred skin, a pang of sadness striking him when he realizes that the gesture is exactly the same as his pa's. "Not a single one."

Conner watches him, with curiosity this time, instead of suspicion. "What does that mean?"

"It means that the people that love me are harder to find. That I'm always going to be different."

Quiet falls, but his clone seems content with that. The boy barely moves as he thinks through what was said. When he turns to speak, his head tips to the side, and Clark is left blinking in shock as he recognizes the tic as one of Robin's peculiar habits.

"Why are you here? You don't have to act like you care just because we share a DNA print. If you really think I don't need you, why bother?"

"I think you're strong enough not to need me," Clark admits, because he's already heard about the months since Superboy's recovery from the Cadmus facility, "but the shared DNA print, in our case, is more than just a genetic similarity."

"The powers? You're talking to me now to make sure I don't misuse my powers?" He's bristling now, his shoulders hunched.

"No, no that's not what I mean, Conner." He freezes when Clark says his name, a tense but blank expression on his face. "...Has Robin told you his story?"

"Enough of it. Bats said he could, though I think that's just because of the bond."

"So you know why Batman took Robin in and allowed him to join the crusade in Gotham?"

Conner pulls one knee up to his chest, leaning on it. His body language reads nothing but _small_ , and yet the kid is fighting his instinct to hide at every turn. "They were the same. They had the same struggles, and Batman understood Robin because of that."

Clark nods. It is a succinct description of what happened. Two broken people, snapped in the same way, that fought side by side. In part to help each other heal, and in part just to know someone that could understand.

"That's what I mean," Clark says. "I live things that no one on this planet could understand. No one except...you."

"So you're saying we're the same too, and you what, you want to be some kind of mentor?" The kid's pulse, which has been thrumming at a pace slightly faster than human, roars in Clark’s hypersensitive ears as it shoots to a speedster’s resting rate.

He starts to answer, but Conner cuts him off. "I don't believe you. You didn't want anything to do with me before."

The words come spilling out, and they're a mess, but it can't be helped. "I know I'm not a mentor. I know I didn't treat you as you deserved. But there are things that we'll both live that no one else can—”He stops, breathes.

He turns to look Conner in the eye. He doesn't flinch, doesn't waver as he would have before.

"My name is Clark Kent. I work as a reporter for the Daily Planet in Metropolis. I grew up on Earth, raised by human parents on a farm in Smallville, Kansas.”

The tension fades immediately, and the signs of shock are incredibly prominent in Conner's limp shoulders and muted expression. His identity is one of the last secrets kept from most of the League and Team. "Our enemies, the ones that knew of my origin? They call me the last son of the planet Krypton. I’ve always been the last son. But for the last six months, I didn't have to be."

Conner just listens again. He's quiet. Yet another thing that Clark didn't — but could have — known about him.

"What do you want, then? Out of this? Out of me?"

Clark’s mouth goes dry, but he tries to string together a coherent answer anyway. "I don't know. I want...I want to show you the farm. Ma and Pa want to meet you. They weren't happy when they found out I'd been keeping you secret from them. The farm, and the fortress."

"I think..." Conner says slowly, but he doesn't seem as stony anymore. His audible pulse evens out. "I think I'd like that."

“Our family will be glad to hear that.”

“Family?” He laughs, but it’s a short, huffy sound. One of doubt.

“You just _try_ to tell my ma and pa that you’re not family. They’re more stubborn than any supervillain. Besides, if what Batman told me is true, we’re close enough to be…” Not father and son, no. Conner has proven himself, and he’s done so entirely without Clark’s support. “Brothers.”

“Brothers?” Conner mulls the word over for a moment and then nods his approval. “Yeah. I guess that works. Brothers.”

As they’re touching down, there’s an instant where a small smile flickers on the boy’s face. Maybe Clark hasn’t made a permanent mistake. Maybe this will work out, and if it doesn’t? At least they’ll both know that they aren’t completely alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on Tumblr at [GuardianLioness](http://guardianlioness.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
